Chapter 28 #2
Glass shatters and couch cushions explode as bullets spray the room, pinging off of metal and crashing through wood. The table we’ve shielded ourselves behind chips and splinters, shooting shards into my hair.
“Ready, my friend?” Malik shouts.
I hold my hand up, asking him to wait. When the shower of bullets slows to a trickle, I nod.
The lights glint off of his polished, leather shoes as Malik’s foot collides with the table.
It launches forward like a mahogany cannonball and slams into two of the thugs. We jump up as they crash to the ground.
Like the worst kind of synchronized swimming team, we dive sideways, Malik to the left and myself to the right.
Blood and brain matter explode before us as we spatter the room with bullets.
Pain blasts up my side when I collide with the floor.
The stun of the impact only lasts a moment before I scramble, ducking behind what used to be a nice couch.
The ringing in my ears dulls, leaving only the sound of my own labored breathing. I swivel my head around, examining the room. Malik does the same.
“Was that it?” he asks with a shaky laugh.
I make a thoughtful noise in my throat. “I, uh, think so.”
Malik’s guffaw echoes through the quiet room. “They must think you weak, habibi. I hope you’ll prove them wrong.”
I stand, turning in a circle to take in the chaos around me.
Destroyed furniture and bullet casings litter the singed carpet.
Stepping lightly, I skirt around toppled tables and chunks of ceramic.
The tip of my boot collides with the abdomen of a fallen gunman.
He doesn’t move. In fact, the only movement from any of our would-be assassins is the slow pooling of their blood on the carpet.
I smile at Malik over my shoulder. “Send me an invoice for the damage.”
His laughter follows me as I step into the now empty nightclub, hoping that I’ve just bought myself some time. Mikhail will need to regroup and find better soldiers to send after me. By then, I plan to have ended this.
* * *
“You’re certain this is the place?” I ask, my eyes raking over the heavy, concrete building.
Shawn’s anxious voice whines through my earpiece. “I’ve been digging into Bianca’s business for three days, man. She seems to pull the bulk of her cash from this place; it’s definitely one of hers.”
Three days. My fists clench to the point of pain, leaving half-moon impressions under my fingernails. It's been three goddamned days since I've seen my little bird. Three days since I've touched her luscious body.
I've never experienced longing like this, not with any woman before her, nor will I feel it with any other.
That, I'm absolutely certain of. There can never be another.
That near-useless organ in my chest rattles against its cage, beating restlessly for her.
She owns it now. Whether she wants it or not, it's hers.
Staying away from her is more painful than I expected.
Need gnaws at my chest, making every inhale feel forced.
It hurts, but it's necessary. I can't put Ava at risk.
I can't see her until these fuckers recognize that I'm not playing around.
Once I've shown Bianca what I'm willing to do to those who betray me, she'll have two choices—run or die.
“There's two guards at the guest entrance in the front and another two at the loading bay in the back. They're armed, Gray. Be careful.”
I grunt an agreement before hanging up. I press my back into the side of the building.
The rough concrete scrapes across my jacket as I shuffle slowly through the shadows.
Nearing the edge of the building, I peak my head around toward the loading bay.
Two men dressed in black stand in front of a large roll-up door, automatic weapons grasped tightly in their hands.
I rake my fingers through my hair, forcing it into a disheveled mess, and yank the hood over it. With my head down, I stumble forward, feeling the weight of my knife in my hand. Its comforting heft grounds me as I place my feet at odd angles, taking awkward steps toward the door.
“For fuck’s sake,” a guard grumbles under his breath, “another fucking drunk.” The volume of his voice rises, projecting into the night. “Hey, buddy, you can't be here. This is private property.”
“Huh?” I garble a confused sound while continuing to stumble toward the door.
The guards grunt in frustration, but don’t stop my approach, not until I’m close enough to smell their aftershave. They march toward me, their angry footfalls crashing on the pavement. Hands grasp my shoulders, boxing me between the two grumbling men.
“Come on, man!” the guy on my left shouts. “Move your—”
My blade slides into his neck and the rest of his sentence comes out as a pained gurgle.
His legs buckle, dropping him to his knees.
He’s become the very distraction I need to put his partner down.
I pivot on my heels and drive my arm upward, sinking the knife into the second man’s chin.
He sputters and groans, falling to the ground in a heap.
I leave their corpses behind, letting their blood paint the pavement. Bianca can clean up my mess tonight, just like she wanted me to clean up hers.
I repeat my charade of feigned drunkenness to take out the guards at the front of the building.
They fall easily, their bodies laying in a crumpled pile of blood and army surplus store gear.
Shoving them behind an unsightly potted topiary, I stare at the nondescript building that houses so much evil.
It’s no different than the suburban home where I was reborn as the monster I’ve become; plain and monotone.
A single-storied Pandora’s box, all of the worst of humanity hidden within its gray, concrete walls.
My fists clench, rage boiling my blood as I stare at the sin box with no windows.
I shove the door open. The stench of cigars and sex crashes into me like a filthy tidal wave.
I step into the wide, windowless room. Dim, amber lights wash its dark pine walls in yellow, making them look aged and dingy.
A similar pine bar covers the left wall, bottles of high-end liquor sparkling on the shelves above it.
The bartender, a thin, middle-aged man, nods at me before returning his eyes to the bartop.
Over and over, he rubs a cloth over the already clean wood.
His face is gaunt; dark shadows sit under his sunken eyes.
Yellow and purple bruising mars the side of his face.
As the seconds tick by, he makes no move to greet me further.
Either he assumes I work for Bianca, or he simply doesn’t care.
No one acknowledges me as I move through the room, sidestepping around small tables and overpriced armchairs.
Even if I stomped through the room with guns drawn, I doubt anyone would notice.
My movements are too quiet to be heard over the clinking of glasses and the chatter of men.
As I step toward the back of the room, my eyes land on a group of them, some of targets for the evening.
My lip curls in disgust at the sight of them.
Half a dozen men ranging from their twenties to their seventies lounge on leather couches with drinks in hand.
Their fat stomachs dangle over their dress pants, threatening to pop the buttons off of their suit jackets.
Their laughter fills the room, grinding against my eardrums.
A young woman staggers toward them, her steps clumsy and unbalanced.
She reaches behind her, yanking her skirt down to cover the frilly bloomers underneath.
Her outfit is revealing and clearly not made for her.
It sags awkwardly over her skeletal frame.
All of the parts of her that should be curved are straight and rigid with bone.
The men’s eyes dip low as she approaches, their heated gazes raking over her malnourished body.
Bianca may not keep the girls with bruises and track marks at the front of the house, but this one isn’t much better off.
Her body wobbles with only the effort it takes to stand.
Her thin arm shakes under a silver tray, causing the glasses to clink and quiver.
She forces out a pained giggle when a man’s grimy palm lands on her ass before hastily retreating toward the back of the room where other emaciated women stand uncomfortably, waiting for their turn to be mauled by this establishment’s disgusting clientele.
My eye catches on something behind them, a door.
I know immediately that it leads to the back of the house, the place where the worst depravities take place. And that’s exactly where I’m headed.
As I move slowly toward the door, the young hostess turns.
Our eyes meet briefly before she lowers her head.
With her eyes cast on the floor, she teeters over to me.
Her orange hair flops over her shoulder, the dull, lifeless strands swishing with her movements.
It brushes her shoulders, sticking into the crevices where her skin pulls taut over her bony limbs.
Her voice is childlike, soft and high-pitched, alluding to her age. She’s barely a young woman; she’s just a kid. Her syllables shaky with fear. “C-can I g-get anything for you, sir?” she asks.
“Grab the other girls and get out of here, quietly. Run as far away from here as you can.”
Her eyes jump to my face, questions swirling in their green depths.
They're a soft, mossy-green, like Ava’s.
My jaw clenches as a sudden wave of fury rockets through my veins.
It’s not Ava, I scream in my head, she’s safe.
She’s not here. The girl’s lip quivers as she tries to speak.
Her mouth opens and closes, but only wheezed huffs escape.